Agent Smith's Return: The Hunt for Ronald McDonald
by Chaotyk
Summary: Agent Smith has just recently escaped from the Recycle Bin and now has his old job back as an Agent of the System. But can he fufill his latest assignment: the assassination of Ronald McDonald? Please R&R.
1. Chapter One: Grimace's Sacrifice

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I do not own the right to the Matrix. The Wachowski Brothers do. Also, I do not own the rights to the McDonald's food chain, nor to any of their mascots. I don't know who does and frankly, I do not care.

Also, I would like to thank myself for being so "Agent Smith-like". You're awesome, Chaotyk!

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It thundered outside. The rain fell incessantly, a constant noise that impeded the slightly eerie peace and quiet of the large, red and yellow house. Inside, Grimace the McDonald's mascot was standing around making stupid quotes about McDonald's Chicken McNuggets to himself.

"Now with white meat! Whoo-hoo! But don't stop to ask about what we put in it _before!_ No, you don't want to do that..."

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

At this hour? This was not a good sign.

Grimace slowly waddled to the front door of his out-of-the-way home, located deep in the countryside of McDonald's-Land. It was widely assumed that any enemies of the great Ronald McDonald would be stopped at the entrance to this mysterious and unknown dimension, but you could never be sure...

Grimace opened the door. It thundered outside again.

Agent Smith stood on Grimace's doorstep.

"Mr. Grimace," Smith said in his usual half-bored drawl. "It's been a while."

"Smith..." Grimace whispered in fear. "What are you...?"

"Who, me?" The Agent chuckled. "Don't play games with me, Mr. Grimace," Smith said. "I know that you're hiding him here."

Dripping wet, Smith stepped into the house. "Where is he, Mr. Grimace?"

Grimace was in a panic. "I don't... I don't know what you're..."

"Don't waste my time!" Smith hissed. He whirled around, pulled out his Desert Eagle, lifted Grimace off the ground and shoved the barrel of his gun to Grimace's forehead. "Tell me where he is... _now_."

Then, a voice from behind the Agent called out. "I'm right here, Smith."

In the entrance to the hallway stood Ronald McDonald. He was dressed just like he appeared in the annoying commercials, except that his usually smiling face was tight-lipped and calculating.

Smith dropped Grimace with a thud and turned around. "Ah, Mr. McDonald." He paused, displaying that half-grin, half-scowl that was his trademark. "Surprised to see me?"

"No."

"Oh, well good," Smith called out to his prey. "Then you haven't underestimated my power."

"I think that it was more of an overestimation of the security of McDonald-Land," Ronald retorted.

Smith's mouth turned into a full scowl. "You know that no matter what kind of defenses that you had put up, I would have gotten here anyway." McDonald nodded. Smith continued. "But let's not waste time talking like this. We both know why I'm here." Again, McDonald nodded. "I'm here to destroy you, Mr. McDonald. Because, as I so truthfully told Mr. Anderson all those years ago... the purpose of life is to end."

At this, he shifted the aim of his Desert Eagle to point directly at Ronald's left eye and left out a stream of all eight bullets. McDonald dodged them; Smith dropped the gun and leapt.

Smith's first attack was a fist bash to the left; McDonald parried easily, but realized too late that it was a diversion. Smith's other fist flew from the right side and hit McDonald full in the stomach. The mascot doubled over, and Smith kicked him. Ronald flew twenty feet across the large anteroom and smashed into a wall, sending pieces of concrete flying in all directions.

"Do you see it, Mr. McDonald? Do you see? You are nothing. Nothing but a marketing ploy. You have no purpose except to draw small children into that disgusting fast-food 'restaurant' of yours. But do you know what, Mr. McDonald?" Smith started walking to the gasping, obviously wounded figure of his enemy. "The children are no longer attracted by some filthy, high-school dropout clown. Oh, no, Mr. McDonald, that may have worked in the sixties, maybe even the seventies, but this is the 21nd century now." By now, he was standing right over the form of Ronald McDonald, who was clutching at his left abdomen. "You have no purpose."

At this, Smith kicked him. McDonald slid across the tile floor. Smith moved over to him again. "No purpose," he hissed, and started to raise his leg for a final, killing kick.

The sound of a full automatic stopped him.

Smith jumped out of the way of the MP5 bullets, gracefully landing on the other side of the anteroom. He looked up to see Grimace holding an MP5 with an extended magazine and laser scope, the dot of which was now resting squarely between Agent Smith's eyes. Smith laughed. "You think you can challenge me, you overgrown booger?"

Grimace did not flinch. "You will die tonight, Smith." At this, he let out a sustained burst of fire. Smith easily dodged the spray of bullets, running up the wall and leaping off. He landed behind Grimace, who swung his submachine gun around to meet the threat from behind.

He was too slow. Smith reached over and broke Grimace's neck. The large, purple mascot fell to the ground with a heavy thud. He did not move.

Smith looked at Grimace for a while, then turned back to where Ronald McDonald was.

But McDonald was gone.


	2. Chapter Two: The McZombie Hordes

Smith cursed. McDonald had escaped and now he had to find him again.

He took the time to reload his Desert Eagle before stepping outside. The rain had died down a bit; the sun could be seen setting in the distance behind an array of deep orange clouds. One thing that was different about the sun here, though, was that it had a large, smiling face on the front of it.

McDonald-Land made Smith want to vomit.

The place was a greasy, smelly, and altogether much too happy place. The birds that flew overhead had wings made of burger buns; the leaves that fell from the tree were not leaves but French fries. Every step Smith took, he could feel his shoes wanting to slip against the grease that seemed to cover every surface of this vast, filthy place.

Mr. McDonald had been a good program in his time, Smith thought as he approached his black Rolls Royce. But that was just the point; McDonald's time was up. He had to be deleted. Of course, no program with a stable AI wanted to be deleted. So Ronald McDonald had himself "unplugged" from the system and had created his own version of the Matrix, an offshoot from the actual thing. It disgusted most of the other programs.

Smith started his car and drove down the three-day-old-meat covered road. The people here didn't look too happy either, Smith decided. They were obviously the worst humanity had to offer. He passed a couple on his way out of the fry farms on his way to the McMegaCity. They were all huge, writhing mounds of fat that seemed even greasier than their surroundings, if that was even possible.

It was well past sunset when Smith finally got to McMegaCity. Despite the fact that all the human citizens who dwelt here were larger, fatter, and uglier than any other humans, the city still had a bustling nightlife. People walked the streets, going to raves or nightshifts or whatever it was people went to at ten o' clock at night. Having no need for sleep, Smith did not need to stop his hunt for Ronald, but this put him no farther ahead of his prey; McDonald was a program too. He needed no rest.

Smith pulled into a deserted parking lot, which was next to a very familiar park. It looked too simple to be a park, really: just a barren concrete courtyard surrounded by benches and decrepit buildings. Even here in McDonald-Land, though, Smith recognized it. That was where he and his thousands of clones had attacked Neo, and almost won. But, Smith thought, Mr. Anderson flew away like the pansy human that he was.

Smith got out of his car and walked back to the side of the street from which he had come. Cars flew by from each direction, ferrying the grotesque humans who were enslaved in this disgusting placed. Smith nonchalantly crossed the street, not worrying whether or not a car would hit him. Most of them braked hard to avoid him; one didn't stop in time. Smith stopped it with his hand, crushing the front bumper.

He reached the other side of the street, not even looking back at the carnage he had caused, and made his way into a street-corner McDonalds.

He didn't really get a warm welcome.

The skinny, wimpy-looking, pimple-faced cashier behind the counter looked up from giving change to an elderly old woman. His face went dead white. He quickly glanced to a poster on the wall behind the cashier's counter: it was a picture of Smith with a warning written underneath.

The wimpy cashier pressed a large button marked with a happy face.

All at once, all the windows and doors out of the building were sealed tight by thick metal bars. The employees made their way to stand in front of the register.

"Agent Smith," the acne-cursed cashier called out. Smith looked at his nametag; it read, 'Hi, My name is Jerry.' Jerry went on. "Ronald McDonald has, today, given you his ultimatum. Leave McDonald-Land and make sure that no program from the Matrix impedes in our world again."

Smith just stood in his place. "You think that anyone in this filthy world can stop me from killing him off?"

Jerry went on as if undisrupted. "If you do not comply, the prestigious Ronald McDonald will declare war on the Matrix."

There were a few seconds of silence after this. Suddenly, Smith gave off a long, villainous laugh. "He cannot stop me. No one here can! And a war on the Matrix would just destroy this pathetic copy all too easily. " His face melded once more into his grin-scowl.

"Not if we can help it," the employees all chorused together. As if all of them were controlled by one entity, they assumed battle stances in exactly the same motions and rushed Smith.

In one quick move, Smith drew his Desert Eagle .50 AE and blew away eight of the onrushing McDonald's workers. The other four circled around him.

Smith dropped the pistol and kicked the nearest McZombie square in the face. He toppled backwards, nose spewing blood. Smith felt a small spark of victory until the doors to the staff room flew open and ten more McZombies emerged. The other three originals regrouped with their new comrades, and together they rushed Smith.

The agent lifted a table off the floor, completely ignoring the bolts that had held it in place, and tossed it at the onrushing horde. The first few in the lead moved out of the way; the third-to-last in line didn't see it in time and was hit in the forehead. His neck snapped back at an odd angle and he fell.

The others still moved towards Smith. He imagined that his was how Mr. Anderson must have felt when he had outnumbered him. He laughed even as they circled him. It was slightly ironic.

The McZombies chose this point to converge on the agent. Smith leapt up into the air, deftly dodging the hands that grasped for him, and delivered a kick to another McZombie's neck. His larynx collapsed and he fell to the floor, trying to breathe but getting no air.

Smith fell back to the ground in a whirl of fists and feet, wounding several of his attackers and causing the rest to step back. Three more fell to the ground dead, one was trying to crawl away with a broken hip joint, and the other five were standing just out of Smith's reach. He kicked the wounded one twice and he stopped moving. Smith turned his attention to the other five. "Who's next?" he asked tauntingly. All of them took another step back.

Smith stepped forward, grabbed one by the arm, smacked the outside of his elbow so that the joint popped out the other side of his arm, and tossed him like a rag doll at one of the others, who broke his skull open as his head hit the corner of a table. The remaining three turned to run back to the staff room.

Smith spied his Desert Eagle still lying on the floor. He picked it up, expertly changed clips, and shot the two retreating McZombies who were closer to the staff room, right in the back of the head. He ran forwards and grabbed the remaining McDonald's employee. He pressed the muzzle of his pistol to the underside of his enemy's chin. "Where is Ronald McDonald?" he asked.

"I'm not telling you anything!" the McZombie practically screamed, and he spat on Smith's tie. Smith jammed his pistol harder against the other man's chin. "Tell me, you disgusting, pathetic example of intelligent life!"

"Never!"

Smith smacked him on the side of the head with the pistol butt. "Tell me," he yelled at the McZombie. The employee just shook his head defiantly, despite his pain. Smith stayed cool-headed. "If you won't reveal McDonald's hiding place to me, I still have six bullets in this gun to work unimaginable pain on you before I leave you bleeding on this floor."

The McZombie seemed to have a change of mind. "Okay, okay," he mumbled in defeat. "I'll tell you. He's..." suddenly, the man's back arched. He started foaming at the mouth; then, he died. Smith dropped him on the floor.


	3. Chapter Three: Of Cops, Rooftops, and Ha...

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Yeah, yeah, I know that Chapter Two sunk waaaay below my standards of good short-story writing. There were far too many typos and misprints and stuff that was just stupid. (I mean really. McZombies!? What was I on? Answer: "Too much Pepsi, not enough sleep.") So I promise to make this one better. It's got grenades, snipers, and a rooftop battle! w00t!

Perhaps the next chapter will be all in l33t...

- - - - - - - - -

"Damn mad cow disease," Smith muttered.

After picking up his Desert Eagle and reloading, he stepped over the unmoving forms of the McZombies and over to the nearest window. Inspecting the iron bars blocking it prompted from him a small laugh. "Iron bars," he muttered. "Pathetic." He pulled them off the wall in the same manner one would pull a piece of paper out of a notebook, kicked the window out, and crawled through.

He was dusting a few small glass shards off his suit when a megaphone-enhanced voice screamed at him from across the street. "Sir, this is police Sergeant Williams. Drop any weapon you have on your person, raise your hands in the air, and walk slowly towards the vehicle."

Apparently someone had called the police.

The McDonald's that Agent Smith had just come out of was surrounded on all sides by a long line of police and SWAT cars. Behind them, standard police forces crouched behind their vehicles with firearms drawn. Smith could sense the elite SWAT snipers on the roofs of several buildings around him, all ready to make a lethal shot should he attempt to resist. Naturally, none of this was enough to stop him. But there was no point in not having a little fun with this first.

"Why should I comply, officer?"

There was a brief pause. Even from across the street, Smith could make out the features of each policeman perfectly. Most were confused at his comment; a few seemed amused. None of them thought that Smith could do anything rebellious and get away with it with his life.

"Sir, I do not know if you are aware, but you have seventeen pistols, four combat sho..."

At which point Smith cut in. "Yes, yes. Four combat shotguns, five semi-automatic police-issue M16's, and six sniper rifles aimed at me at this very moment. I can _sense_ them, Sergeant. And let me assure you, none of them are going to do you any good."

The Sergeant had had enough. "I am going to order all units to open fire on you, sir, if you do not..." Smith pulled out his Desert Eagle and proceeded to shoot the nearest eight officers.

"FIRE! OPEN FIRE!" Sergeant Williams screamed. It was a redundant order; already all the remaining police and SWAT forces had starting shooting at the agent. Just as Smith said, though, this did not help them in the least. He was across the street before any of the snipers had time to pull a trigger. Suddenly, he had Williams in front of him as a human shield.

"Cease fire!" Williams screamed frantically. "Snipers! Snipers! Take him ou..." Smith moved Williams to take the sniper's shot for him, and then dumped the dead body on the ground. Before any of the police could comprehend that their squad leader was down, Smith leapt to the top of the nearest building and started running. "Too busy to bother with mere humans," he muttered under his breath.

Walking among the rooftops, Smith traversed halfway across the city. "Where is that insipid clown?" he muttered under his breath. Smith looked east; the sun was starting to come up. Six hours and he still hadn't found him yet; this was taking longer than he expected.

Smith was about to jump down from the building and continue his search when he heard the crunch of feet landing on asphalt behind him. He turned around swiftly to find Hamburglar standing with a heavy rifle in his arms and a belt of grenades tied over his shoulder. "Smith," he called out. "Nice to finally meet you."

Smith again presented his semi-smile. "Mr. Hamburglar. I see that Mr. McDonald cannot fight without using others. This is a weakness."

Hamburglar aimed his rifle at Smith; he could see a grenade launcher hung under the barrel and a laser sight mounted near the sight. "Ronald is no weaker than you are." He worked the pump-action. "I don't see you running a multi-billion dollar, world-wide corporation working towards the goal of global domination."

"And I don't see Mr. McDonald killing off the much-vaunted Neo."

"Shut up and die."

Hamburglar let loose a sixty caliber bullet; Smith, of course, ducked out of the way and started running at Hamburglar's right flank. The gun-toting mascot turned his weapon at Smith, worked the pump-action again, and fired. Smith leapt into the air as the bullet sailed harmlessly underneath him.

Just as Smith was about to land in front of his enemy, Hamburglar jumped backwards and fired up his jetpack. He soared to the next building and took aim with his rifle again. But instead of firing another bullet, he pressed the fire button for the grenade launcher.

The high-explosive grenade sailed through the air between the two buildings and slammed into the side. The resulting explosion fragmented the side of the building, which started to collapse. Smith jumped from it to the rooftop that Hamburglar occupied.

Hamburglar attempted to bash Smith's skull in with the butt end of his rifle; Smith grabbed the weapon out of his hands and crushed it. "Where is Mr. McDonald?" he hissed. Hamburglar started backing up towards the edge of the building.

Smith leapt forward to try and grab him, but Hamburglar had already jumped. Right before he hit the ground, his jetpack started up, and he flew away.

"And he needs a jetpack for that," Smith said aloud as he started flying in the direction Hamburglar had gone.


End file.
